


Lesser Spirits

by SteadyLittleSoldier



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Awkwardness, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Nature Magic, Nymphs & Dryads, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period Typical Attitudes, Period Typical Bigotry, The Iliad, Trojan War, War, song of achilles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:06:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27884995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SteadyLittleSoldier/pseuds/SteadyLittleSoldier
Summary: While taking a bath in the stream, Oliver spooks the boy who makes the soldiers' clothes smell of flowers. And in the midst of the decade-long war, the desire to quit and the thirst for glory wage their own private war in the godling's restive mind.
Relationships: Oliver/Elio Perlman
Comments: 81
Kudos: 92
Collections: CMBYN December Fest 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this in 2018. Never found the courage to post this because this was purely self-indulgent. And it wasn’t written to be read by anyone else, so there might be stuff that I haven’t explained properly. Let me know if there are any. Tried to keep the pretentious language to a minimum so as not to make it seem ridiculous. I have mixed Roman and Greek names for convenience, apologies if that’s your pet peeve.  
> I’ve changed the setting and the characters a bit to better fit my story. Apologies to those who have read The Iliad or know the story thoroughly, this might bug you.
> 
> Aristos Achaion – Best of Greeks. Oliver’s title.
> 
> Posted for the **CMBYN December Fest 2020** using the promt **Fairytales and horror stories**

* * *

There was a certain idleness among the soldiers. They were almost purposeless and all the more brutal. It couldn’t be determined what caused this but one can blame the foreign land. When it is not one’s own country and race that they fight for, men seem to think others less human; the cruelty does not hurt the conscience. 

The thought occupied Oliver’s mind as he slowly trod to the stream that he had been longing to take a dip in. It was the middle of the day and he was sweaty and still in his armor, ready to fight whenever the call came. Unlike his troops, he had a purpose here. He was the best of the Achaeans and the battlefield was a mere playground for him to prove himself to the gods so they could obliterate the part of him that was mortal. 

The cause of the war was a personal one. Only to the kings. Helen had been abducted from right under Menelaus’ nose by the prince of Troy, Paris. A war between Troy and Sparta had been inevitable in spite of Odysseus’ brilliant endeavors. The soldiers that they had gathered were eager to prove their worth, but the war dragged on for nine years now. They had all lost their spirit and now prayed for it to be over because they wanted to return home.

Yet the end of the war meant something else for Oliver. For Troy to fall, Hector, their greatest warrior, must die. And as fate would have it, with Hector’s death, Oliver’s was tied.

Hence, nobody found Oliver complaining about the lengthy war or the time spent away from his home in Thessaly. He sent a little prayer to Zeus and his mother, Thetis, as he removed his armor and clothes before stepping into the cool water. He sighed as the river gulped his naked body, and he started to swim.

A woman. No, a _boy_. A Trojan, surely – washing Spartan clothes silently by the bank. Oliver stared. It was odd and daring for a Trojan to be here, unguarded near the Spartan camp. It was by the styling of the boy’s dusty white tunic that Oliver knew of his race.

As soon as the boy’s gaze landed on the floating man in the water, he sprang up and held the wet clothes that he was washing close to his chest. He refused to take his eyes off Oliver, eyes that were big and round with fear.

“I… I am… don’t kill me, please,” he stammered, tongue-tied as he struggled with the dialect.

“It’s alright, boy. I’m not going to hurt you.” Oliver spoke each word slowly. When it didn’t do much to reassure the boy, Oliver raised his hands in surrender. “See, no weapons. I’m only here to bathe.”

“If I wash your clothes, you let me go?”

Oliver chuckled. “Why, I haven’t got you.” The boy seemed confused and still scared. So he added, “if you wash them, I will have to return to my tent in wet clothes. Or naked. How will that look?”

“Not good.” 

Oliver laughed harder and flipped, performing a dead-man’s float. He closed his eyes and basked in the late morning sun. “You are not a soldier. It would be rotten to harm you. You can go whenever you please. You are not under my command.” 

Moments later when he opened his eyes, the boy was still there, staring at him still with the same expression.

“Well, go on,” urged Oliver.

“I… wash clothes,” he said, gesturing lamely at the clothes.

“You need to finish your chore?” The boy nodded. “Wash, then. I won’t bite.”

The boy timidly knelt down again and continued washing, but not without throwing him furtive glances every now and then just to be sure he wouldn’t attack. Perhaps Oliver should take the boy to Menelaus, at least to Odysseus, and question him. He could be a spy for all he knew. A baby faced assassin, sent here to kill the Aristos Achaion.

“Why do you wash their clothes?” said Oliver, now drying himself and dressing up, standing beside where the boy was crouched. 

“For food. Once I received a piece of cloth.”

Oliver huffed out a laugh, finding it hard to believe that the soldiers would pay a Trojan boy.

“I- I can wash your clothes too. Collect wood for you. Or cook your meals.”

“You can cook?”

The boy nodded.

“Well, then, come to my tent by the last light.”

He nodded again.

A wry smile. He was inviting the enemy to his resting place. “And you know where my tent is.” It wasn’t a question. Oliver was testing if the boy really knew who he was.

“I know every tent.” 

The answer surprised Oliver, but he did not think much of it and bid him goodbye.

* * *

As promised, the boy asked his permission to enter his tent at twilight. Oliver was lounging in his bed, a lyre in his hands. He noticed the boy eyeing the instrument, carrying woods and twigs in his hands.

“Isn’t it beautiful?”

The boy nodded, as usual, not opening his mouth when a gesture would do.

“It was a gift from my mother. It’s made by nymphs,” said Oliver.

“The sound is different.”

“Yes, divine.”

The boy dropped the wood beside the small stove.

“I don’t know your name.”

“Elio.”

“Your family worships Apollo, I gather.” Oliver then pointed to a lump of clothes in the corner, which the boy took with him, and before he left, Oliver handed him a fig. 

“In advance?” asked Elio, surprised, which told Oliver something disheartening.

“Yes, for the wood and the clothes.”

Oliver followed him out of the tent and watched, unbeknownst to the boy, as he asked several soldiers if they had dirty clothes that he could wash for them and two of them threw their clothes at him from the inside of their tents. With the weight of the clothes, the lithe boy wobbled on his feet and walked out of sight towards the woods.

When he returned in the morning with crisp clothes in his hands, struggling to balance them in his hands, Oliver picked out his clothes for himself, and suggested it would be a lot easier if he carried them in a bucket. Elio didn’t answer. When Oliver looked up at him, he found his gaze dancing from the bread beside his bed to Oliver’s eyes, struggling to keep eye contact. The green of his eyes were tinged with gold and blue, and they were nestled in big deer-like eyes with dark lashes, which gave him an almost feminine aura. His brows were raised in fear. He was afraid of being caught staring at food.

“Have you had breakfast?” said Oliver.

Elio shook his head.

Oliver tore a piece of his bread, took some grapes, and handed them to him. The fear in the boy’s eyes did not leave completely, as if expecting a blow or a lash, but he thanked him and didn’t move until Oliver dismissed him.

He, again, watched as Elio called the warriors from outside. One shoved him out of his tent with nothing and laughed as he struggled to keep the clothes from falling on the ground. The other threw him a couple of grapes that he couldn’t catch and picked up off the ground as quickly as he could. What could Oliver do? The boy was harmless, not yet proven otherwise. But he was a Trojan. Oliver couldn’t possibly ask his troops to treat him like a human being. So he tutted under his breath and went back inside to prepare for the day’s battle.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [watch his hair](https://va.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_qku95e3RMJ1s853gj_720.mp4)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Agamemnon - King of Kings, Menelaus' brother who called for the war against Troy for the abduction of his sister-in-law, Helen.

It was understood, with no verbal confirmation, to be a regular arrangement between them. Elio kept coming back with woods. Oliver did not always have dirty clothes, but he presented him with fruits and bread nonetheless; sometimes fish and vegetables when he could spare them. The only way Elio showed Oliver his gratitude was when he spoke, unasked, and said that the soldiers do not fancy being very clean. Oliver had laughed, told him that the soldiers cannot _afford_ to keep clean. The reason why Oliver had failed to decline his help, he thought, was his pity for the boy – a sentiment inherited from his kind father, King Peleus. While it was true that Elio looked old enough to be made to earn for his family alongside his father, Oliver found himself wondering – while staring blankly at Agamemnon who was now talking of strategies – if Elio’s father had any land or trade.

Nobody except the wise Odysseus noticed his distracted eyes. It could be dangerous not to listen to their leader before a battle. But then again, Oliver did not need to memorize any strategies, nor did he care for it – this, Odysseus knew. Oliver went to the battlefield and wounded and killed everyone in his path without much effort. Everyone except Hector. The princely silver helmet he always kept an eye on. Because Hector was the best of Troy, and Oliver of the Greeks, the laws of the gods would suggest that only Oliver could kill Hector. And Oliver kept his distance. This selfish reasoning he shared with no one. He has seen Ajax the Great fight Hector, seen the merciless Agamemnon struggle before him. They were no match for Hector. 

_‘Mother,’_ Oliver called in his mind. _‘Mother, be with me.’_

She did not reply. She never did. But he knew his mother always watched him, watched over him, but never intervened. The lesser spirits rarely could.

_‘Do I fight Hector this day and end all this suffering? If Hector is second to me, who is to kill me when he is dead?’_

Oliver’s thought was dragged back to Elio. He was a Trojan. Could he be a spy, an apothecary sent to poison his food or clothes and burn him? Was this how he was to die? Not on the battlefield, but in the hands of a feeble boy. A cowardly murderer. A cowardly death. One did not have to be a great fighter to poison one.

Oliver thought of when he had handed Elio another fig the second day. The boy had been surprised again. “But you gave me the bread,” he had said, thinking that was his payment.

Oliver’s lips twisted in a subtle smile. And when he looked up, he found Odysseus lifting his gaze off him and turning back to Agamemnon. But he was smiling too.

* * *

Every nightfall Elio came to give him woods and collect clothes, and the next day returned to give him back his clothes that always smelt of flowers somehow. When Oliver was slitting throats and piercing the chests of the enemies on the battlefield, Elio left his clothes on his bed. One day Oliver returned to his tent, drenched in blood and weary with guilt, and found the place tidied, the bed made, the wood placed neatly beside the stove to be used any moment he wanted. He smiled to himself and forgot about the bloodshed for a moment.

But the war never left Oliver, because he was born for this. On a killing spree one day, he pushed his spear through a lithe body, and as the man tumbled down, his helmet dislodged and he lay, staring at the sun, gasping. Oliver stood and stared. It was a boy. He couldn’t be a day older than fifteen. He huffed like a dying fish and sputtered out a clot of blood before his soul left his body. 

Oliver was shaken by Diomedes and screamed at before he rejoined the battle. 

Hours later, cleaned and changed, Oliver found himself walking towards the hill by the stream where there was always a sweet miraculous wind blowing. His keen warrior eyes saw the small figure sitting near the edge before he heard the sniffles. The boy sat, hugging his knees.

“Why do you weep?” said Oliver, his voice mellow among the chirping of the returning birds and the song of the leaves. It did not startle Elio, as though he could sense his presence. Nor did he seem afraid, submissive – as though ready to sprint should anyone try to attack – as he usually did. As though surrendering to Fate, he kept staring at the water and did not look up at Oliver.

“All of Achaea has waged war against my home, why would I not weep, Aristos Achaion?”

So he did know who Oliver was. But Oliver was taken aback by the frankness with which he declared his loyalty to Troy. Any other soldier would have killed Elio on the spot.

Oliver sat down beside him and looked at him as tears trailed down his porcelain skin. The teardrops catching the last rays of the day. His mouth red and wet as he breathed through it.

No, he thought, not any soldier would have the heart to kill such a creature. It would be a crime against nature and Aphrodite would weep.

Oliver himself was not fond of Agamemnon and his dominating demeanor while he was the best of the Greeks. Yet he was supposedly fighting for Agamemnon’s brother’s cause as they had all heeded the call of the King of Kings. Yet, he was not loyal to him, nor to anyone else except for his father. He was Aristos Achaion; he bowed to no man. He led his own army of Myrmidons. And he was here for one reason only. His immortality.

So why should it matter to Oliver where Elio’s loyalty lies? “You must have been very young when it all started,” he said.

“I was not nine.”

“How do you know the language?”

“I have spent nine years among your soldiers.”

“You’ve been here all along? Why haven’t I seen you before?”

“Why would Aristos Achaion see me?”

Oliver smiled. He was right, but for the wrong reason. Oliver would not have paid attention to an adolescent that he is sure Elio was even a year ago. “Where do you live?”

“Here.”

“Can you not work with your father?” _You’re not safe here_ , he wanted to add.

Elio smiled sadly and looked at him finally. “If you wish to enjoy the breeze alone, I will leave,” he said and made to stand. He must have misunderstood.

Oliver stopped him by putting a hand on his shoulder. His skin soft under his rough touch. “I am tired of being either alone or speaking to the kings about the war.” 

“What about the maids?”

“Quickly grew tired of them.”

“Surely the Best of the Greeks can manage to have a beautiful maid, the fairest no less. You won’t grow tired of a beautiful face.”

Oliver was amused. “Perhaps.”

Soon Elio left to collect twigs and chop woods for him. Oliver asked to join him, which baffled the boy. No prince should engage with a peasant, much less help him do his chore. But his situation was too humble to refuse Oliver, and so he let him help. His strong arms, built for battle, sliced wood with one smooth strike and the sun hadn't even dimmed before they were done.

Oliver was carrying his own wood that evening with Elio trailing along behind, giving the excuse of sore legs, so as not to be seen with the Aristos Achaion and cause any unnecessary trouble either for himself or Oliver.

He smelled it before he saw her. The salty air. The smell of the sea. Just as they were about to follow the path out to the camp. Oliver stopped in his track suddenly. He turned and looked back at Elio. And behind him, Thetis. Floating inches above the ground, motionless. Her long dark hair, weighted down with moisture, draped her impossibly sharp features, dangling over her night-blue eyes. Silently, she waited. Always silent.

Oliver stared at her. His consciousness oscillating between these lulling few moments spent with the boy and the reality of the war, given rise to by the presence of his mother. “Which god do you pray to, Elio?”

“None,” said the boy, nonchalant, still watching his steps, with no knowledge of the formidable creature a couple of feet behind him.

If it were anyone else in Oliver’s place, they would have perhaps castigated him. But Oliver was surprised and the answer thrilled him. He looked at the boy in the setting sun, his warm brown dangling over his lush ivory skin that still had some pink taint of childhood left in it, leading down to his flushed cheeks that were no longer wet. While kings, princes and warriors like himself could not but pray to the gods from time to time, a boy like Elio had nothing to pray for. Perhaps he had lost too much, been refused or been faced with indifference too many times to believe in their mercy anymore. The deeds of godling mortals like Oliver, who were heroes and mighty, barely affected the gods, let alone this poor boy. It did not matter if he prayed or not. The gods did not have time for the lesser beings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (will be back by the third week of Jan)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Pelides – of Peleus._ It's like Achilles’ surname.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a long hiatus if anyone was waiting.

He became Oliver’s preoccupation. Whenever Oliver was not engaged in discussing strategies or fighting on the battlefield, Oliver found himself thinking about the boy. A welcome change in the looming tragedy’s stead.

During one of the idle days, when soldiers lounged about outside and inside their tents, even the commanders catching their breath, Oliver bathed early in the morning, met with his mother, gathered delicious roots, then ran to his tent to cook a hearty meal for supper. 

By twilight, he heard the telltale footsteps of Elio but waited for him to call anyway. He swung the curtain aside, exposing the boy to the luring odor, and slowly took the blocks of wood from him one by one, and found him, with his flickering gaze and worried eyes again, eyeing the food that lay quite exposed, intentionally put in clear view. Oliver smiled wryly as he turned to go put the wood away. A trap to capture the fleeting pixie.

“You are welcome to supper,” said he, before handing him the clothes.

Elio smiled, shy and afraid. “No… no, I thank you, no.”

“Have you already eaten?”

He shook his head.

“Well then,” Oliver stepped aside and gestured for Elio to walk in. “I have plenty of food.”

Elio walked in slowly, but when gestured to sit on one of the cushions, took a step back. “I am peasant born, my lord Pelides,” he said without meeting his eyes. “You’re a prince, a godling. Aristos Achaion. I am not allowed to dine with you sitting in the same position.”

“By whose law?”

He stared at him blankly.

“I’ve dined with outcasts my entire life. Besides, you are not a peasant here, it does not matter.”

“If anybody sees-”

“No one will dare say or do anything in my presence. Sit, Elio.”

Elio hesitated for a while before deciding to not disobey Oliver, sat down on the smaller cushion as Oliver settled beside him and put half of everything on his plate. Oliver smiled as Elio shoved the first few spoonfuls into his mouth hurriedly as though if he didn’t eat quickly enough the food might disappear. But Elio’s quick eyes caught his gaze and Oliver hurriedly took his eyes off him, paying attention to his own meal, after which Elio forced sloth, but hastened to finish the meal nonetheless, rose to his feet, and bid goodbye before Oliver had finished even half of his meal. Oliver sighed as he realized that he had failed in his attempt to calm and comfort Elio. He is still just as a scared animal, unlike that day on the hill.

* * *

Oliver endeavored to catch him by the stream or on the hill again, as though chasing river nymphs, but failed day after day. He found him in his tent one day when he came back from a bath, washing the gore and filth of the battlefield off his skin, and found him not only cleaning his shield but also admiring it, touching the engravings with his nimble fingers. The god-crafted shield depicting the wonders of the world was enormous in his hands, yet somehow it looked as though it belonged there. The boy startled when he was caught. He hurried to leave, but not before Oliver had a chance to thank him with a smile.

Oliver resolved to catch him by the stream the day after, and this time he succeeded. He swam around, nudging the boy to speak, trying to break the veil of fear that he watched Oliver through, and watched him wash the clothes of his brothers in arms. Elio talked, offering him a smile every once in a while.

The day that Elio eased enough to laugh freely in his presence was when Oliver flicked water at him. Oliver stared in wonderment. What joy it was to behold such beauty, what pleasure. The sweet sound that poured out of his open mouth that allowed Oliver a peek of the rosy inside rang in his ears hours after Elio had left as he sat on the bank of the river, his eyes closed, the wind brushing his face softly.

“Stop.”

The smell of the sea pouring over him. He smiled without opening his eyes. “Mother.”

“What are you after?”

Her sharp, chilling voice bit the insides of his ears like needles. He looked away.

“Your mind is not on the war. Have you forgotten what is at stake?”

“It’s been nine years. I’m here to die, mother.”

There is silence for a while. “You knew what would happen, son. You were aware of what comes with the path you have chosen.”

“I was,” he said in a small voice. “But that does not mean it does not ache.” 

“Think of the glory, not of the despair and the peasant.”

“What is it to you?”

“Your mind is diverted from your purpose here.”

“I cannot cling onto the smallest bit of happiness that I am offered?”

The wind around them trembled with the echoing sound of her belittling laughter. “You were born too high for this.”

Oliver felt a cold touch on his cheek.

“My son,” said Thetis, her voice somehow warm. “You _chose_ this.”

Oliver let out a deep breath and closed his eyes, nuzzling against his mother’s touch. Her palm soft but cold as a dead fish against his cheek. He thirsted for this. The boy who grew up in a motherless castle thirsted for the assuring embrace of his mother now more than ever. He knew he had chosen this path. He had a choice. And his mother would have wanted the alternate life for him as well. The choice was not easy for either of them. It would be murderous for Thetis to watch her son grow old as her husband, a fameless ordinary king, and die before her eyes. It was equally painful to watch her juvenile son battle with his death on the battlefield every day for a drop of ambrosia that might or might not be granted him. It had been nine years, and Oliver had lost all hopes of impressing the gods upon whose whims the world depended. Would killing Hector impress them? He had wondered many a time. The prophecy was clear: Oliver lives if Hector does. And without Hector’s death, the war will not end.

Abruptly, Oliver was left with only the murmur of the stream. He felt infinitely alone. He hugged his knees and rested his chin on them, and the thought of his Elio peaked through his despair. He wasn’t sure if he should heed his mother’s warning. How can such a pure soul hurt his destiny? To be with him before he faced his predestined fate, to be allowed to spend his numbered days with him would be a blessing.

* * *

That day Oliver watched Elio giving back freshly washed clothes to one of his soldiers, and witnessed the man shoving Elio’s shoulder when he timidly asked for payment before ceasing the figs that Oliver had given him from him, which resulted in him losing balance and falling on his back. The remaining few fresh clothes ended up on the dirt.

Elio’s eyes darted towards Oliver – a declaration of his knowledge of Oliver’s secret spectatorship – moisture gathered there. His cheeks gained color as men began to laugh at him. He lowered his gaze as though he was ashamed, not because he was treated thus, but because he was treated so before Pelides.

Oliver’s chest burned with pity and anger. He could stand this no longer. “You,” he called. “Give them back,” he said calmly as he marched towards the man - a Myrmidon who cowered under his superiority. “You give them back and you pay him.” He knew he had a reputation for his wrath. He was determined not to add fuel to the fire.

The man dropped the fruits on the ground for Elio to pick up and said "I do not have much, sire.” Another man approached Oliver. “But my Prince, you are aware that this is a Trojan?”

“He is not our enemy. If you find pride in harming an unarmed man, you are no man at all. The men of Peleus do fair exchange. You pay him for his service and you treat him well, or he is to report it to me.”

Silence fell as Oliver returned to his tent. The soldiers did not dare cause a hindrance as Elio rubbed at his eyes, gathered the clothes, and left to wash them again.

* * *

“You know you have given them a chance to further tease me?” said Elio when Oliver asked him to eat with him the next day. 

“I know my men. They won’t disobey my direct order.”

Elio shook his head, still frozen at the entryway.

“What is it?”

He trembled as he took a breath in. His voice broke when he said, “what service do you require?” He stared at the fire as moisture gathered in his big scared eyes.

“What?”

“What service in return?”

Oliver frowned and came to stand before him. “I ask nothing of you.”

Elio took a moment. Oliver could sense whatever he would say next would be measured words. He opened his mouth and without meeting his gaze said, “Men like you always want something.”

“I- men like me?” He took another step towards him. “There are no men like me.” Oliver stopped abruptly when, though it had been comparatively mild, Elio flinched from his voice. He must have been expecting him to hit or shove him like the others. Elio’s sudden accusation did anger him. He thought the boy would be grateful, would thank him. But he noticed his pitiful stance. Was he so accustomed to being hit? “I am not a mere man; do not compare me with one.”

Elio nodded.

“Why are you so cruel to me? I have been nothing but kind to you.”

“You have... because you pity me.” Elio looked up at him as though daring him to lose his temper though tears lingered in his eyes. Oliver took another step towards him but before he could say anything, Elio continued, “You can hurt me. I know of your wrath. But I did not ask for your pity or help and I do not want it, my lord Pelides.”

“So you deny my–“ Oliver stopped.

A strange sensation. A tingling. A cool breeze seemed to have blown through his rage and he unclenched his fists. He had never dreamed of this boy being capable of spewing such sharp words. And now, that Elio had let him view his mind even a little, Oliver did not want him to stop.

“What of my companionship?” Oliver found himself saying.

“Companionship? With a peasant?” When Oliver nodded, he asked, “why?”

Oliver shook his head in disbelief. He had never felt this odd mixture of calm and admiration. “I wish I could tell you.”

Elio frowned and turned to leave.

“Have supper, Elio,” Oliver called from behind. “I have cooked for you too.”

“I beg, allow me to leave for tonight, Pelides?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! This is primarily a CMBYN fic, not a fanfic of the Iliad or Achilleid or any of the epics. This focuses solely on Oliver and Elio, not on the war. Sorry to those who are disappointed. And to look for "accuracies" is futile because nobody even knows if that Homie dude was even real. But thank you to those who are still reading this self-indulgent piece of crap. Y'all are super nice <3

When days went without any call to battle, Oliver’s muscles ached with inactivity. Before dawn one morn, he went into the woods, with his spear and sword in hand with the intention of doing some simple drills, drills he had no use of any longer. Even Chiron, the lone centaur, who was meant to train him, had said there was nothing he could teach Oliver when he saw his swift and effortless movements with the spear. Chiron was the first living being to see Oliver practice. Thetis had prohibited anyone’s audience least they could measure his ability and train someone else accordingly. As if it was possible. Oliver hadn’t known bloodshed then; he sliced only tree trunks and sandbags. Only sap oozed out of the trunks. They were not tainted red. Hamadryads would hiss at him but even they knew who he was and who birthed him. He would smile at them and apologize. Only gods knew what it was to receive apologies from Aristos Achaion.

He trotted to the woods, reveling in the thoughts of the soothing stretches of his muscles with his movements, the bath in the cool water of the stream after, and the smell of the leaves crushed under his feet. His keen godling eyes caught a glimpse of the dark mass under a tree. Fearing to find an attacked body, resulting perhaps from a petty feud among soldiers, or one of the bed maids, Oliver dashed toward it. But as he came close, he could tell what, or rather, who it was. Panic and terror tore through his guts at once. He lost all sense of where he was and what he was doing as dread clouded his mind. He knelt down, grabbed the lithe shoulders of the boy, and shook him. “Elio. Elio!”

Elio’s eyes shot open in terror and within a second he sat up and jerked a foot away, keeping his shocked gaze on Oliver.

“Who hurt you?” said Oliver with urgency, getting closer to him in a hurry and rubbing his cheeks tenderly with his thumb, his skin soft under his touch, searching him for any sign of blood or injury.

“No… I was only sleeping. ” The boy, though relieved to see it was only Oliver, breathed through his mouth with a hand over his heart, his eyes going from round to his usual disinterested doe.

Oliver looked him up and down – he was wrapped in the dirty clothes of the soldiers, a sack under his head fluffed out as a makeshift pillow. “Why are you sleeping here?” He sat back on his heels, his hands sliding down Elio’s arms and settling on his wrists. “Were you too tired to go home?” Now that he had finally touched him, he could not stop himself. With newfound relief, he took Elio’s hands in his. They were small and delicate in contrast – a reminder of how it would have been unbearable to lose him.

“This is where I sleep,” said the boy simply, shrugging his shoulders, rubbing sleep away from his eyes.

“Why did you not go home?”

Elio looked at him. A smile dancing on his lips.

Oliver realized. Of course. “You don’t have a… home?” he said in a low voice.

“I am a Trojan among Greek soldiers.”

“But by the stream? There are hydros!”

“Snakes don’t hurt me.”

"What do you mean?" said Oliver furrowing his brows. He had killed countless snakes with his bare hands. His godlike eyes would see their subtle slithering movements when no one else could and, before anyone could blink, he would grab it and rip the snake’s head off. 

Slowly, Elio sat up properly and leaned against the trunk of the tree, closed his eyes, and thudded the back of his head against the tree. "They coil around my calf and sleep."

Oliver frowned but received no further explanation. Animals being kind to certain tender souls was not unheard of. He brushed away a lock of Elio’s dark hair that dangled over his eye. He looked peaceful, not afraid anymore. Oliver remembered his wet eyes, the fear in them that seemed to have found its constant home in those hazel orbs. But his hands were warm in his now, not trembling.

“Elio?”

“Yes?” he didn’t open his eyes, neither had he yanked his hands away from Oliver.

“Are you afraid of me?”

This made Elio open his eyes and look at him. But his gaze did not give away the answer.

“Everyone is. Even Hector,” said Oliver.

Elio remained silent for a while. Then he looked down at their joined hands. “Your hands are soft for a warrior,” said he, his voice tender with sleep. Oliver felt Elio’s thumb rubbing circles on the skin of his palm. “Do you know how beautiful you are?”

Oliver’s cheeks heated up. He had been called so many things, but never this. He knew he was. Of course. He was the son of a goddess. A prince. But his prowess as a warrior far acceded his beauty. And those who dared to compliment him would seize the chance to compliment his hold of the spear.

“Your mother makes your hair glow as liquid gold in the sun. You are not a mere weapon of war to me, Pelides, and I am not afraid of you. Not now, not like this. You could never hurt me.”

Such honesty and that so sudden.

He knew of the power he had over Oliver. Yet the Prince was not wholly aware of it. Was it the exhaustion that caused Elio to be so free with him? – Oliver found himself wondering. Perhaps for the first time, he thought, the veil of fear and need for respect had been lifted completely. Elio was simply Elio, not a peasant, not a Trojan. And Oliver was his; and his Oliver was not a godling, not a warrior.

He was overwhelmed as he felt warmth and tender affection, spread through his chest. Such delicate emotions he had never experienced before. He felt the sudden urge to give back. Something, anything. “Will you accept my apology?”

Elio let out a short laugh. A chortle. Sweet as honey and just as smooth and warm. He smiled and rested his palm against Oliver’s cheek as he leaned to place a lingering kiss on his temple. He whispered a melodic phrase in his mother tongue softly against Oliver’s skin.

Overcome with this new sense of cavernous love, Oliver cupped the nape of Elio’s neck. And as if with an unfelt pull, the boy leaned down and, sighing, rested his head on Pelides’ shoulder as though the very muscle was created for him to rest on.

Oliver pressed his lips against his hair. It was strangely soft for someone who lived in the woods. It smelled of flowers – the same odor his freshly washed clothes gave off. It was equally as sweet a surprise as the softness of his skin. Oliver wanted more of it. He wanted him closer. But he felt him shiver in his arms as he wrapped a hand around his torso. “Are you cold?” he asked.

“I am tired.”

Oliver jumped up on his feet. “Come.” He offered him his hand. “Go into my tent and sleep. There’s still time before the sun rises fully. I am not going back any time soon, so sleep as long as you wish.”

Elio looked up at him. For a moment, Oliver thought he would deny him blatantly again, accuse him of arrogance. But Elio did not say anything, only stared.

His father Peleus was known for his kindness. Even though he was a mere mortal, his teaching had effects on Oliver who always endeavored to be as kind as his father, never stopping to think that this kindness also came from a place of arrogance, and perhaps nobody had ever dared to point out this disrespect out of fear of his formidable form. How this feeble boy with no home, no weapon, no relations had dared to tell him off was still beyond him. Oliver admired his bravery and honesty. He smiled. “This is not pity,” he clarified. “This is a friend offering you a place to rest.”

“If your men see me entering your tent, they will end me.”

“No one has risen yet.” Elio looked unconvinced. “Then I will go with you. Come.”

Elio’s tired foggy mind did not find the strength to protest, so he gave him his hand and let him hold it all the way to his tent. There he slept for hours in the soft bedding that smelled of his Pelides.

When Oliver returned, he found eggs, bread, cheese, fruit, and milk ready for consumption, and Elio there waiting for him, skipping his daily work for the day.

But when that night Elio came back to collect his clothes, Oliver touched his wrist softly. “Stay here tonight?”

“I couldn’t…”

“You don’t have to do this any longer. Stay with me. Eat, sleep here.”

Elio remained silent.

“This is not pity,” he repeated. “Elio, I crave your presence.”

“They’ll-”

“They will not dare.”

They cooked on the hearth and ate together. And when Elio gathered the cushions to sleep on the ground, Oliver, sat on the bed, interrupted, “Sleep on the bed with me. It is big enough. I do not own a spare blanket.”

Elio stood up and slowly started to strip off. He pulled down the sleeve of his tunic to expose a smooth slender shoulder that gleamed in the mellow light of the lamp, and pink nipples. Transfixed, Oliver gaped. Elio dropped his tunic and was left only in his loincloth. He gathered his clothing in his hands, walked towards the bed, and simply knelt before Oliver. He hesitated and would not look up at Pelides. Then his hands rested on Oliver’s knees. They were not trembling; they simply did not know what to do.

Oliver cupped his cheek and made him look into his eyes. “Not if you do not wish it,” said Oliver. “This is not why I asked you in.”

He stood and, with one tug, took off his tunic and went to bed. “Come, rest. You look spent,” he said, looking at Elio who still knelt, rooted to the place.

Oliver blew out the source of the light. “There is a battle tomorrow,” he said into the darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

Oliver could have arranged another tent for Elio if he wanted to. Bed maids of the commanders often had their own tents. But Elio was not a bed maid, Oliver thought. He was not a prize won from raids. Besides, Elio had not complained, nor had he seemed hesitant. After the initial hitch, he came to the tent of his own accord every night if he had not spent the day there already, and would fall asleep without effort after supper. Oliver often found himself wondering what he spent his day doing now that he no longer washed the soldiers’ clothes or did their chores. Myrmidons were now used to seeing him around, taking him to be their Prince’s private servant. They knew not to bother Elio anymore but they would not regard him as anything more than a peasant. Only Phoenix would nod and smile at him kindly.

It was still rare for Elio to spend the whole day in or about the tent. Most days after the battle, Oliver would seek him out in the woods, on the hill or by the stream. Some days he could not find him at all. And then Elio would return to the tent with mushrooms, roots, and fruits for him. They would eat, talk and laugh, go to sleep reciting the names of the stars, swapping languages. In the night, Elio’s head would come to rest on Oliver’s chest. What use of another tent did Elio have? Yet, Oliver knew this was not the only reason he would not ask for another tent.

He wanted him close. He wanted him as his Therapon. His companion, his comrade, the closest one man could be to another. Promised of nothing but loyalty and camaraderie until death.

* * *

Oliver woke alone in his bed. He knew he had to fight that day. For the first time in a while, he felt a tug in his chest. He wished for another leisure day, perhaps spent by that lovely stream. He felt a craving, though somewhat weak, for the quieter life. Oliver sat up and, clutching his jaw, closed his eyes. There was no glory in lazing about one’s life. Wars would be remembered, not the little moments of utter elation. He was born for greater things. The Fates had not promised happiness but only greatness. What hero was remembered for being happy?

_This is the life I have chosen. It was my choice. My name will be remembered for thousands of years. Will it not, Mother?_

He opened his eyes. His armor awaited him in a corner.

Waiting until the last moment for Elio’s return, Oliver put his helmet on and left the tent to find his Myrmidons gathering outside.

* * *

Second only to Pelides, Ajax the Greater put up a valiant fight against the resilient Prince Hector, which agitated Oliver a little, afraid should Ajax succeed. Hector and Oliver had put on a play of run and chase for almost nine years now. Oliver would keep him busy attacking just so other worthy warriors wouldn’t attack and kill him, and at the last moment he would let him run back to the god-built walls of Troy. But this day, Ajax was relentless, throwing spear after spear as though he had promised the gods to end Hector this day or he himself should perish. Oliver effortlessly doused the lives of those who still had the courage to come near Aristos Achaion; his eyes never leaving Hector. It was essential that Hector must live. The war must end with Hector still alive. Oliver did not know if he was ready to die now that he has finally learned what happiness was, had a purpose to survive the war.

But Agamemnon’s victory would not only win Queen Helen back but it would also mean the end of Priam’s bloodline, including Hector.

In the midst of all the bloodshed, Oliver stood rooted to the ground. Hector’s angry eyes glazed under his silver helmet, fixed on his combatant.

For Troy to fall, Hector must die. And Troy _must_ fall.

To secure his immortality, Oliver must win.

With maddening speed, Hector advanced toward him.

Why not end all suffering this day? He could, with a single swing of his sword. It would all be so easy. He would save so many Greek brothers from losing their lives. Troy would fall. Apollo would scurry back to Olympus. Aphrodite would weep.

Oliver stared at the sunrays bouncing off the silver of Hector’s shield as the distance between them closed by degrees. 

* * *

“You are alive,” said Elio, without turning around. His voice monotone. He knew the sound of Oliver’s footsteps. He always knew.

“Is that not thrilling?”

“You reek of blood.”

“And you weep again.”

He was on the hill again. That ceaseless mystic wind. It brought the smell of wet grass, leaves, even the stream with it to Oliver.

He sat down beside Elio and stared at the liquid gliding over the darkened rocks. “Do you think I taint the stream when I wash the blood of my victims here?”

Elio smiled. His lips plump from crying. “You could not taint the whitest of sheets. That blood is your burden.”

“Yes, but I chose it. I chose to be here. I choose to kill. I choose it every day.”

“Have you killed Hector?”

Oliver bowed his head. Sighed. “Not today.”

“You can choose to turn around still.”

Oliver chortled. “Not now, no.”

“They know who you are. You won’t be called a coward.”

Oliver shook his head. “I chose this,” he repeated. Trying to make himself believe that he, and not the Fates, had control over himself.

Something touched the small hairs by his ear, so soft that he almost thought it was a leaf falling from the trees that happened to brush his skin. He turned and found Elio’s wet, green and golden eyes.

“You are kind to me.”

“Kind?”

Elio nodded. “It confused me. I had only heard of your greatness on the battlefield. You are so full of love.”

Oliver frowned for greatness and kindness had nothing to do with each other in this world.

“Now I cannot think of you on the battlefield, with rage in your eyes, spilling human blood as though it were water.”

The thought anyone else would have found hilarious. Aristos Achaion and war were synonyms, not something separate. Yet, coming from Elio, the words sounded as natural as the undecided hues of his otherworldly eyes, as though by this unfamiliar declaration, he had given Pelides a new identity, a new name.

“I was born of rage. I am a product of rape.” 

“But you are so beautiful,” said Elio, repeating his previous confession, his voice just above a whisper.

Oliver stared. He would have so gladly accepted it had he not been drenched in blood.

Elio’s tear-soft eyes met his. His palm cupping bloodied cheek, transferring moisture through the touch and making Pelides’ eyes sting.

The next second, Oliver jumped into the water abruptly. Drowning the moisture of his eyes in the water before it could have given in to the pull of the Earth.

He rubbed the blood off his face and witnessed the little miracle of the river deities. The red liquid, instead of flowing away, vanished right before his eyes in the mystic water. He looked up at Elio, grinning, his eyes round with excitement. The little tricks of the tiny spirits still amazed him. And he wished to share it. He found his companion smiling, who had come down by the bank to watch him wash and swim, and shielded himself with his hands when Oliver started flicking water at him.

“Join me,” said Oliver.

Elio laughed and shook his head.

“Come!”

Oliver swam to him and pulled at his leg. Laughter poured out of the boy’s mouth. And after much scuffling, Oliver succeeded to drag him into the water, making Elio yelp. He chuckled as Elio, pouting, feigned frustration, thumped and splashed the water before dipping his whole self into the water and vanishing completely.

Oliver saw no ripple, no sign of his raven-haired playmate. He dipped his head underwater and his keen eyes caught a glimpse of the bright white fabric of Elio’s tunic. The lithe body kept swimming away with incredible speed. But no man on Earth could match the speed of Aristos Achaion, and he closed the distance within seconds, caught hold of Elio, his arms around the slender waist, and hoisted him up and out of the water as he laughed with unabashed glee, wiggling against the hold. The honeyed melodic sound of his laughter, mingled with the wind, the birds hidden behind green leaves started to echo.

A strange phenomenon. Bizarre.

They quietened and listened in wonderment.

Nothing had ever seemed so seraphic.

Magic surrounded them from all around. In the water, the wind, the trees. Oliver held his breath and listened, in surprise and awe, of the beauty, of the magic, and wondered if Elio could sway the trees, persuade the birds and the wind. The droplets clinging onto his lustrous skin gleamed with the last light of the day. For a moment, Oliver could swear the boy in his arms was gleaming before Elio’s laughter subsided as he teasingly licked the open mouth of the godling. As though inviting him, he let his own lips stretch with a smile, allowing Oliver a glimpse of the gliding red muscle inside that was his glistening tongue.

Oliver captured it between his lips knowing what would ensue, and forgetting, for a brief moment, about the clotted blood of Trojans that still clung onto his skin.


End file.
